Inverse Runs
by gnails
Summary: In which Michael's the recruit, Nikita's the Division op, and she doesn't quite know what to make of him. Secrets and emotions run amok.
1. one

_Dedicated to all those fictional spies and espionage movies and shows, James Bond, Jason Bourne, Syriana, Alias, and of course Nikita, for spawning this demented child of a story. For Matt Damon and his accent and pure awesomeness._

* * *

_One_.

* * *

The coffee they offer Nikita is lukewarm, which bothers her. She doesn't want to seem like a snob, but she's accustomed to Venezuelan black coffee, ironically trade-free and organic, rich and fresh and hot when she gets it back at Division.

But she doesn't show it though, her ire of instant coffee, nor does she show her displeasure about the assignment, doesn't show her ulterior motive or the suspicious business she's in. Instead, she demurely smiles, looking through her lashes at the guard to her right, and sips her cold coffee in a Styrofoam cup wrapped in her manicured fingers.

The guard is a full head shorter than she is with acne cratered all over his face. He gulps, feeling oddly warm in a frigid corridor full of death row convicts. He's twenty-nine and hasn't had a date in nearly three years. A part of him hopes he gets lucky. Another part, the more realistic part, is sure he won't. Another part of him is deathly afraid.

"H-He's ready to meet you," the guard stutters.

Nikita hums, hiding her impatience. The click of her heels echoes down the row, a couple of cat-calls responding. She follows the guard down, down until they hit a sparse room with a lone man sitting at a metal table.

The door shudders when it closes, and the guard shudders with it outside.

The man finally looks up, surprisingly defiant for someone about to die in twenty-four hours. She likes that. If nothing at all, it means he'll be good. Maybe hard to train but good.

"Hello," she says.

He stares, his jaw tightening.

She frowns. Never got to see his photo. He's a little old for a recruit, but she supposes Percy has his reasons. A white tee stretches over his broad chest and his beard, speckled with grey, moves as he dryly swallows. For Nikita, at least he's well-built and not bad on the eyes, despite the almost woeful presence he emanates.

He opens his mouth, chapped lips splitting.

"You must be Nikita." Voice low. Coarse like a murmuring growl with a lilt to his voice that tells her he comes from a lower-class background. It surprises her that he regards with a strange restraint, as if respectful. It meant that he understood order and hierarchy. It meant he could be taught.

She sees potential. This might work. Maybe she shouldn't have doubted Percy when he assigned her, of all people, to him.

"That I am."

She settles herself down in the chair across. Nikita's irritation about the whole assignment dissipates. She liked it when the recruits were easy. She smiles, and his eyes trace her mouth. Red.

A beat.

"I don't wanna die."

Her smile widens, and his eyes shamefully flicker down.

* * *

At first, he reminds her of the Afghan desert. There's a character to that vast landscape that was lost upon her old unit. All whipping wind and dust, sharp cliffs and edges for miles and almost pretty, in an abnormal way. But uninhabitable, where you couldn't see unfriendlies amongst the rocks, and it made people walk on their toes. And it was dry. Handsome.

The wife beater shows off his various tattoos. The La Muerta brand stretched across his bicep is the most prominent. He's clean-shaven and healthier looking, having lost the sullen cheekbones and dark bags under his eyes. It's a funny juxtaposition. He could pass off as a white-collar professional if his face weren't perpetually stuck in a scowl.

The other recruits, the ones young and stupid and not quite as world-weary, whisper about him. They make theories and conspiracies about how and more specifically, why he was chosen. He's atypical. He's the one who's supposed to be dead, not the one given a second chance like the rest of them. But the grim reaper and its cheeky, skeletal grin stamped on Michael's arm tell them otherwise.

He doesn't play nice with the other recruits, staying solitary at his own table during mess hall, his mouth continually pressed in a brittle line.

Nikita wonders if he can hear their little wispy voices. She tilts her head, watching the way he glares at everyone. It's cute, almost, the way he sits hunched over his metal tray, an almost paranoid gleam in his eye, ready to strike out at anybody who even breathes the wrong way.

"So that's the underground fighter," Alex says. She has a habit of stating obvious things, but she says it in a way that makes Nikita smile. "Isn't he a little old?"

"Percy specifically asked for him. I guess he wanted a change."

From Operations, Nikita can see the way Michael stalks around the table, all sinew and wound up tension. Alex skeptically glances at him, not seeing what Nikita sees.

"He looks promising though," Nikita continues. "Lots of raw power. Do you remember the way he attacked Owen?"

Alex's eyebrows rise up, giving her a sarcastic look as she smoothes out her pencil skirt. "Owen's out for a month. Who doesn't remember."

Nikita laughs at the remark. Alex was like that, saying things that shouldn't be said. She wasn't the standard of professionalism, but she had a way about her that made people comfortable—it's what made her good at infiltration and why Nikita kept her around.

That and somebody needed to negate Percy's everlasting gloom and doom personality.

"How's training going?" Alex asks.

Nikita hums, poised and controlled, tracing the rim of her mug. "What do you think Birkhoff?"

Behind her, the computers softly whirr, running over video feeds. Birkhoff, sitting at his proverbial spot amongst the tech, swings his chair around.

"What?"

She smirks. "Don't tell me you weren't eavesdropping."

Birkhoff sheepishly shrugs, tapping frantically at the keyboard in a manic pattern. "Couldn't help it."

He's skittish around Nikita. He's skittish around Percy and Amanda too, but it's Nikita who has the most access and interaction with the lower lackeys like him and Alex. Her presence there keeps them in check, glued to their jobs with little space to breathe.

Birkhoff chokes on his tongue when he realizes that Nikita was expecting him to continue. She watches him with a threat, her lips pursed in a disapproving line.

"I—uh-he's different. Really different. He's only been here a month, and he's sent Owen to the hospital, flew by all of the basic fighting regiments, and Amanda's taken a shining to him." He ticks off numbers with his fingers.

There's more potential than she predicted. It's rare for a recruit to go against her expectations. "Hmm."

Michael turns his eyes to Operations. He catches Nikita's eye and turns away too quickly. Although thoroughly enjoying Michael's discomfort, Nikita surmises that the awkwardness wouldn't be good for his training.

Michael abruptly shoots up, banging the table as he stands and startling the recruits in his vicinity.

He stalks off, throwing an indiscernible glance over his shoulder at Nikita. She hides her smile behind her cup.

* * *

Nikita teaches the recruits how to read people. She introduces them to the art of physiognomy—human expression—and explains to them how gestures give away tell-tale signs useful in any situation. How certain tics could be interpreted and how they could respond accordingly.

Then she delves deep into manipulation tactics, how to piece together a person's history and warp it any way they wanted, for exhortation or blackmail. Admittedly, it's a long lecture, and the new batch of recruits are anywhere from their teens to early twenties. Not the prime age for attentiveness.

But then she notices Michael, bored and uninterested, picking at a stray thread at the base of his shirt and spotting out patterns in the floor's speckled tiles. Of course, this was one of his first non-physical exercises, a whole lot of talk and not a lot of action, but for a recruit that Percy has such hope in, Nikita is somewhat disappointed, if not annoyed.

"Michael. Taking everything you've learned, what can you say about me?"

The recruits all shift, subtly parting to further the barrier between them and Michael. He had been called out and marked by _Nikita_, and none of them wanted to be connected.

But against expectations, Michael slowly looks up, unperturbed by Nikita's challenge. That look suddenly irks Nikita, that unpredictability he brings to her carefully constructed efficiency. But she's confident that she'll make an example of him to all the recruits about paying attention to their instructor.

Michael stares at her for a long moment, stretched thin by her increasing impatience.

"You like throwing people off their game," he suddenly says. "It reminds you that you're in control. Either it's because you're a sociopath." The recruits stifle their laughter, biting on their lips when Nikita shushes them with a glare.

"But by the way you mother the recruits, that ain't it. So it's probably because there was a time when everything was up to chance, and everyone else had the cards when you didn't."

A couple of the recruits whistle, impressed, and they whisper among themselves. Nikita darkens, displeased.

"How'd you do that?"

"Wild guess."

"Wild guesses get you killed," she bites out.

Embarrassment flushes up her neck, and Michael's mouth quirks up at an edge into a lop-sided smirk, something Nikita's never witnessed before. The shock will wear off, but it's the fact that he switched the game around and made her the one that's been called out—marked as a victim. She's in a compromised position and realizes that Michael's a hell of a lot smarter than he lets off.

And he's still smiling.

"Dismissed. Do something productive with your free time," she tells the group of agitated recruits. They all literally sprint off in different directions, muttering to themselves about Michael's sheer insanity and how they'd rather keep their necks intact. "Except you Michael."

"Ma'am." He feigns a courteous nod and eases back into his chair. She saunters down the aisles and slots a polite mask on her face.

"You surprise me Michael. That comment was out of left-field and the most I've ever heard you say in one sitting." Her anger flares when Michael's smile curves farther up.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says so easily. He leans in to her space, challenging her to back away. Nikita wants to scoff, because he assumes that she's weak-willed.

She could take him down in less than seven seconds flat, underground fighter or not.

"I can make you match your death certificate if you don't move back recruit."

Nikita takes it as a victory when his smirk flattens. But he isn't one to shirk back, forcing them into a tense standoff. Michael's shoulders relax, and he quickly shoots his head alongside her face.

"I wasn't wrong though," he breezily whispers into her ear before easing himself out of his chair and passing by her, ghosting his fingers along her arm, a dangerous flash in his eyes. It sets her mental alarms off.

She watches his back disappear around a corner, berating herself.

Michael leaves her taking back her initial opinion.

He's no longer the Afghan desert, beautiful with its orange hues. His novelty was beginning to wear off, unveiling something sharp about him hidden behind that brute force.

Suddenly and out of the blue, he starts to remind her of a rickety well in a small village she once rashly dived into, back when she was a private and they were low on rations and there was no other way of getting drinkable water. She drew the short lot and made a mistake, gauging the depths incorrectly—thinking it was more shallow than anything-and underestimating the force it would take her to kick back up to break surface. She remembers her mind screeching at her, that she'll drown. That she'll die. That she'll never get back home.

* * *

"There's something off about him," Nikita confides to Amanda in her office, sitting at the vanity next to a sleek desk. "Percy won't listen to me about it. He thinks it's because he has a different background, but that's not it. What sort of person is able to take down a trained operative the way he did?"

"An underground fighter who learned to fight for other's people amusement and kept tame through barbiturates," Amanda replies calmly. "The sudden change from chaos to the institutionalized setting at Division was probably enough to make him slightly unstable."

"It's not just that. At first, I didn't think much about Owen or the way he finished basic training so fast, but the other day, he undermined me."

Amanda is above juvenile things such as rolling her eyes, but the way she glances up at Nikita gets the point across. "Undermined you? Nikita dear, it's hard for anyone undermine you, let alone a recruit."

"He's been trained before."

"He's an underground—"

"I mean trained by the government. Intelligence. He knows how to work people, throw them off their guard." She's sure. She's seen that sharp gleam in his eyes before, because she is literally surrounded by people who have that same exact look, however subtle and indiscernible it may be.

"Impossible. _I_ interviewed him. He comes from working-class white trash and actually believed that La Muerta could give him, quote, 'cash, bitches, and fame'. There's nothing in his past reviews that say otherwise." Amanda arches a graceful eyebrow. "Besides, didn't you say that he had a lot of potential? I think it's because you like him."

"Bullshit," Nikita replies rather inelegantly. "I've been training recruits for years. No one comes in with this sort of understanding."

"He probably knows how to read people when he was in the ring." Amanda, with her clean hair and impeccable taste, signs a document with a piercing, deliberate movement. "But most of all, he's like a dog. He's probably having fun with you. I think he's bored being cooped up. It'll change once he starts going outside."

"That's rash thinking."

Amanda sighs, dropping her pen and pointedly clasping her hands together. "Look. I'll talk to Percy about advancing Michael ahead. Maybe training with the older recruits will give him a challenge. In the meantime, to quell your worries, I'll talk to him."

Nikita drops her head against the chair before heaving herself up. "Thanks Amanda."

"I'm surprised, really. I've never seen you this worked up over anything before. You're usually the vision of poise and military standards," Amanda says mildly. "You're sliding."

Nikita laughs on her way out, calling over her shoulder, "Never."

* * *

Any suspicions about Michael are blown to smithereens when Nikita discovers how terrible of a shot he is.

"Ease off the recoil Michael!" she shouts over the din in the firing range. Already four lessons in, and he still hasn't improved his marksmanship. No one is intentionally that terrible at shooting. At this rate, she'll have to demote him back down to the newer batch of recruits.

Owen, worse for wear and limping like his right foot is a lead weight, throws a harsh glance her way, warning her to stop invading his territory. "My class Nikita. What are you doing here?"

"Percy wants me to check up on you. You just got out of therapy. A couple of the recruits need correcting, and…" she trails off, watching a few recruits wince as bullets leave barrels. "You're not correcting them."

With an ounce of disdain, he replies, "You mean I'm not correcting Michael."

"Perhaps," she says slightly.

"Well boo-friggin'-hoo. I think it's better for him to not shoot straight. Pun not intended."

Nikita lifts an eyebrow like she's been practicing it whole life. It's a discreet threat that she'll kill him herself. Owen glowers, losing the verbal tenacity he had.

"Michael!" Owen shouts. "Get your head out of your ass and learn to shoot!"

Michael throws a dirty look over his shoulder, his teeth showing as he snarls. "Fuck off. It's only 'cause you're a lousy teacher."

Nikita gets the strongest urge to roll her eyes. "Michael, keep your eyes front and center. If you can't fire five shots on target within the next week…" she trails off.

By now, Michael knows the expiry date for inefficient recruits, the weak ones who can't perform as well as the others. He immediately shuts his mouth and turns back to his target.

After a moment, Owen says sarcastically, "Maybe we should just sic him on people."

Michael shoots, completely misses the mark, and finally chucks his gun at the target, frightening the other recruits. Nikita raises another eyebrow.

"Like a pit bull," Owen flippantly remarks.

* * *

Nikita leaves her office late at night after lights are out for the recruits. It's a common occurrence. Her apartment was only a place to sleep in, no matter how well-furnished or decorated.

She decides to unwind at the firing range, because she's not one for bars or alcohol, not since she's left the military. She didn't dig further into the implications this had on her social life or lack thereof. It just happens.

Once she's there though, she doesn't find herself alone.

Michael quickly slides off his mufflers when she taps his shoulder. "Nikita," he says, surprised.

She cants her hip against the ledge of one of the booths, crossing her arms. "It's past your bedtime Michael."

Michael wipes off the perspiration from his forehead while rolling his eyes. After sliding his mufflers on, he empties the gun, tearing the target to shreds. He slots in a new clip, distinctly ignoring Nikita, and he tries again.

He misses all vital points by inches and mutters obscenities to himself, increasingly frustrated.

"You need to focus."

"I am focusing," Michael growls and slams the gun down. "I was until you decided to come along."He glares at her, tensing up as if waiting for her to strike back at any moment.

Nikita's gotten the hang of his moods.

"You're not bad you know," she points out. "You have potential."

Michael furrows his brow and stares at her like she's a puzzle, unable to figure her out. He has that smart edge again, that shine in his eyes that tells Nikita his minds buzzing with thoughts sharper than a blade. He defies her assumptions and leaves her questioning.

But in an instant, gone are the calculating looks, the unreadable expressions that unsettle Nikita into an unknown territory. All that's left is Michael, his firm angles of his face, his eyes nearly black in the dim lighting, and his bone-deep exhaustion from a long life of drugs, crime, and abuse.

"Thanks," Michael says, his eyes dropping. "And I'm sorry. You know, about everything."

Of all the things possible, Nikita was not expecting an apology.

Michael fidgets under her scrutinizing gaze and awkwardly shifts the gun around. It's disarming, the way he acts intimidated around her, figurative tail between his legs.

"You mean that gross breach of personal space. The 'read' you got off of me," she says.

"Wild guess, I told you. I dunno…what was up with me that day. I was bored, and I wanted to piss you off."

Amanda's words echo in Nikita's head, telling her that there's not a whole lot of depth to Michael. That he was easy to get, to dissect, and to lay out on a sterile table for study.

But for some reason, Nikita thinks he isn't. Other than those odd, unquantifiable glances, she's not sure why, and that much she knows.

"I don't get you Michael." His head rises in an unspoken question. "You should take that as a compliment."

"Yeah."

Michael raises the gun, about to squeeze the trigger before heaving a deep breath and setting the gun back down. Nikita watches the way he bows his head, his hair tapering into the stretch of skin on the back his neck.

"There was this guy I knew," he begins.

Nikita says nothing, listening closely instead.

"Jimmy. Grew up with him, my best friend and everything. He was this guy who had some major hook-ups. I was a real mess growing up, getting into fights. Eventually, we moved to LA. Didn't get any real money from odd jobs. I got hooked on heroin, started dealing, and I accidentally sold stuff on La Muerta's turf. Got into some more fights, beat up a coupla gangsters, and out of the frickin' blue, La Muerta's leader actually tells me that he can make me into a star, if I'd just go with them. And I did."

He looks up at her.

"That was the stupidest decision of my life. I lost contact with Jimmy after that. I was barely lucid enough to figure out what it meant when someone told me that he OD'd. And now, I think…I could've done something, if I just didn't…"

Suddenly, Michael reminds her of a kid that used to live down the block in Philly, brunette, gorgeous, hard lines along his jaw, made all the wrong choices. But another part of her tells her truthfully that Michael actually reminds her of—

"We have a lot more in common than you think."

"What? We have the same brand of heels?"

She finds herself chuckling, a small noise escaping her closed mouth. Michael almost smiles. Almost.

"I grew up in Philadelphia. Most of my childhood, I bounced from one foster family to another, until I got stuck with this one couple. I think…that was the first time I felt like I had a mother." Michael listens quietly, tracing the outline of his gun with a careful, purposeful movement. "She died a couple of years later, and the guy was a total sleeze. I got stupid, and I got myself hooked on ketamine. I nearly killed a man over it too."

Nikita mulls over her next words for a second, ignoring a surreal feeling falling over her—the fact that she's in a firing range with Division's oddest recruit, discussing life stories. She scolds herself; it was a good opportunity to calm Michael down, connect with him, maybe to get him to—she's not sure—maybe to be easier to control.

"I stole money from this guy who later on I found out was a veteran. He caught up to me before the police did, and I got the lecture of my lifetime. He helped me clean up, and I eventually joined the army."

Their words hang heavy in the room for a moment, pulled long by their silence.

"That's why you have the…" Michael points at the underside of his wrist, indicating her own, where a tip of a blue shield peeks through her starched sleeve. She laughs, and he smiles at that, open like a clear sky, charming Nikita.

"How'd you know?"

"My old man was in Desert Storm. He has a tattoo like that. You should cover it up better. A lot of the males around here think it's something you got when you were drunk in college."

"Hmm," she intones appraisingly, looking at her wrist.

"I never thought you were the army type," he teases with an uncharacteristic softness to his voice. She laughs, and he smiles at that, open like a clear sky, charming Nikita. A balmy burn appreciatively unfurls in her stomach.

Nikita shrugs, warming up to him. "I used to train soldiers like I'm training you and your fellows."

"Oh" is all he says. Another moment holds out, and slowly, Michael's grin fades. Distracted, he lets out a slow breath.

Nikita notices that his hair is gently lit under the fluorescent lights, turning his brown hair almost blonde. He seems older, more years piled on him than on her, the shadows marking out the lines by his mouth and the crow's feet at his eyes. He suddenly turns to her like it's the first time he's seen her before, unsure and a little vulnerable and his eyes the color of woodlands, old and remarkable.

And when he stands to his full height, she has a vision of him, like a delicate memory on the verge of breaking apart. His hair is cropped short. His tattoos are covered up by a sartorial suit as black as ebony, and a gun in his hand. He's lethal, unexpectedly so, and he's the promise of a steady presence in her life.

Suddenly, she understands what Percy saw in Michael.

"Do it."

"Nikita?" he asks, confused by the apparent non-sequitur.

She gestures to him. "Go practice, and shoot the target."

"I can't Nikita," he says a little desperately. "I don't know what I'm doing alive. But after I heard you telling me to get better, I panicked. I'm not getting any better, and I'm screwed if I can't—God."

"It's okay. I'm here to help you. You're tensing up too much when you shoot. Relax your shoulders and we'll start from there," she encourages him, discovering Michael to be much more pleasant than she originally thought.

The novelty and mystery may have disappeared, but in its place was something capriciously honest and human. Something with a lot of potential. If Michael listened to her, he would be the best.

She hopes he understands that in the way she smiles imploringly at him.

Michael loosens up, and gradually, the corner of his mouth whimsically twitches up, eyes bright. "I can do that."

* * *

By the end of the month, he does.

It proves that to Nikita that she wasn't wrong.

* * *

The next couple of months go by, the seasons pass, and accoutrements start piling up in Michael's room. He's particularly fond of the Simon and Garfunkel CD she presented to him after a successful exercise in covert stealth—something Nikita was worried about, because after all, Michael was never very successful at hiding himself or his temper.

Percy congratulates Nikita. He had his doubts too, you know. He's impressed. Everything was going swimmingly.

Now, less of an animal stalking all over the place, Michael fights with surprising grace, a little more intelligence, and a lot less force. He starts controlling himself, stops being a wound-up ball of nerves and anger and is actually able to hit on target. He walks taller, moves faster, and thinks quicker.

And he likes talking to Nikita. A lot, in fact. They swap jokes whenever there's free time or when she's personally overseeing his training, and it makes Nikita grow particularly affectionate of Michael. She looks at him now, and she can't help it when a small glimmer of pride wells up.

* * *

Percy decides to send the recruits out on a test-run. He lets them loose on the outside for a recon exercise and picks Michael as a team lead.

Nikita isn't there for it, having travelled to Amsterdam to "persuade" an arms dealer into giving some goods, but when she touches base, she discovers that Michael is locked up in solitary for going against orders.

"What orders?" she asks.

"It doesn't matter," Percy evades. "He disobeyed them, and there are consequences for disobeying."

Six recruits don't make it. Percy says its fine. There are always more teenagers to save, he says with an ironic leer. It's not the first time he's said something like that or this has happened in Nikita's career. But it's the first time that she has to swallow down a sick feeling caught in her tongue.

When Nikita releases Michael, she escorts him to his room. He moves slowly, as if nursing a bad leg, and carries his right arm cautiously.

"Don't wanna talk about it Nikita," is all he says with a hard set to his face and a sickly yellow bruise stamped on his eye, fresh from the way its colored. She doesn't comment on the way his fingers are bent at odd angles or the way the guards by his cell barely hide their smugness.

When they arrive, Michael wordlessly slips into his room. Nikita's temper flares, but she does nothing about it. Ultimately, there wasn't a whole she could do.

* * *

Eventually, Michael heals up. Amanda tells Nikita that she shouldn't worry, sometimes recruits had to learn the hard way, and Michael would be fine.

* * *

_Beware of sporadic updates! _


	2. two

_Lots o' luff for all the reviews. A warning: the story isn't following the TV narrative and is going to veer way off of canon. Like waaaaaay off. This is part two out of four._

_

* * *

_

_Two._

_

* * *

_

"Michael."

Michael halts his punch halfway to Thom's face. "Yeah?"

"I got something for you," Nikita says.

"Oh thank the lord," Thom mutters, unstrapping his gear as he passes Nikita. Alex punches him lightly, calling him a wimp.

"Oh, okay," Michael says, shucking off his head guard. "Give it here."

A cheeky smirk appears on Nikita's face. "Nope."

"You might want to sit on the sidelines for this," Alex says sotto voce to Thom. "It's gonna get interesting."

Nikita takes a stance on the mats, and soon, curious recruits gather around.

Michael laughs, shaking his head. "No offense boss, but are you sure?"

She tilts her head and raises her hands. "C'mon. Afraid you'd be beat by a girl? First one to hit the ground loses."

Michael sheds the rest of his gear and grins goofily before striking first out of nowhere, lobbing a quick fist at Nikita, who easily slides under it. She grabs his leg and yanks it, watching, satisfied, when Michael tumbles over like an incredibly tall tower of cards. His body hits the ground with a resounding thud.

"And who's the boss?" Nikita calmly asks. Alex giggles amidst the scattered applause from the recruits.

"You. And don't I know it," Michael says, winded. "I can't believe I got beat by a girl. That was a dirty move!" He points accusingly at her.

Thom whistles, astounded. Alex rolls her eyes from the sidelines. "That was anti-climactic."

"Michael." Nikita's features fill up Michael's vision, blocking out the ceiling. "I had a handicap. Heels." She points at the patent pumps at her feet, a marvel of balance.

Michael lets out a breathy laugh and groans when he lifts himself off of the ground, waving away Nikita's proffered hand.

"So, what's the occasion anyway?" he asks.

Nikita offers him an inconspicuous white keycard, a token of Michael's newfound status as a field operative.

"Gold star," she congratulates.

"Thank you ma'am." Michael mockingly bows, his syllables cleaned up with Amanda's care. He straightens his back, rising to his full height, and it's then that Nikita remembers how tall he is, looming over her, and the way his profile arches past her face.

Michael takes the card and holds it up in the light, as if searching for some secret map to a hidden treasure. "You'll be there, right?"

Nikita slants her head, her shoulder gently hitting against his bicep. "Of course. Somebody has to save you when you mess up."

Alex stifles a laugh. Thom claps, exaggerating his movements with an amused expression. Beside him, Owen scornfully glowers, the scar bisecting his right eyebrow a reminder of Michael's wild days. He's not too thrilled about how the man suddenly became Nikita's favorite pet. But Owen's feelings go by unnoticed.

Instead, Nikita watches the way Michael looks at her, pleased with himself like an overgrown boy. The oldest of the recruits, like a little kid. One of the weirdest things to see in Division.

Nikita claps her hand on Michael's shoulder, her hand covering the grim reaper's ghastly teeth. He looks at her, and for an instant, her heart catches in her throat, almost choking her like water filling her lungs. She can tell that Michael knows, that he sees it by the way his eyes shift, the green hues latching onto her eyes.

Quickly, Nikita disengages her hand, takes a step back, and clears her throat, plastering on a professional smile, narrowed down to a barely noticeable curve, her heartbeat rapidly drumming in her ears.

"Good job," she says.

Michael hums-a habit he caught from her-pleased.

* * *

"_Nikita, you might wanna come back to HQ_," Alex says over the phone.

Nikita watches the city lights when the cab hits the bridge as she says, "Percy gave me permission for leave."

She yawns, jet-lagged, waiting for Alex to respond. She wonders how Michael's mission went and in her sleep-deprived mind, thinks how ridiculous it was that she had compared him to a decrepit well in her experiences. She reminisces on being pulled out, remembering the coarse sensation of the rope she grabbed onto, the sudden rush of pure and unadulterated liberation when she gulped in air. She can't think of how Michael is related to all this when her thoughts begin to jumble, exhausted.

Nikita starts dozing off until a voice pierces her ear. _"Nikita, I'm sorry, but there's, uhm, kind of a situation right now_."

"Hmm?" she murmurs groggily.

Alex sighs. _"It's Michael._"

Instantly, Nikita perks up. "What?" She rubs her eyes. "Did something happen during the rendezvous? Is he all right?"

"_He's been asking for you."_

"All right," Nikita says immediately. "I'm heading back."

* * *

Michael forlornly sits at the medical bed, miserable. Lacerations run up his back in raised ribbons, deep and thick, as their doctor tuts around him, berating Michael for getting into a mess this bad, while using a pair of tweezers to pick out debris from Michael's flesh.

"I fucked up. I completely fucked up," Michael says.

"People make mistakes," Nikita replies gently, hiding her relief.

"Not as bad as this."He hisses when the doctor wipes down a cut with an alcohol wipe. "You said you'd be there," sounding like a spurned lover.

"I'm sorry Michael. I got pulled for some other business—"

"Birkhoff didn't notice the guys on my trail. Five, Nikita. There were _five _of them."

"Michael—"

"And get this. They were gunrunners for the O'Malley gang. I've met guys like that before outside of the ring. They're not happy people. How the fucking hell does a senator know gunrunners? Jesus," he groans. "What is it that you people do?"

"We were helping the senator," she soothingly responds. "He had-"

"Cut that out. You guys wanted me to kill Judge Peterson. Her granddaughter was staying the week, dija you know that? I've hurt people before, but that's because I had no otheah choice." Agitated, his accent rouses thickly as he lost whatever composure Division had beat into him. "I could've killed 'em, you know? How can you be so fuckin' calm?"

"_Michael_," Nikita sharply warns, her eyes narrowed and body tense.

Michael's mouth immediately snaps close, his nostrils flaring, eyes dropping, embarrassed.

Her body sags when she sighs and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, but the judge has some skeletons in the closet that threaten the well-being of the Supreme Court. I told you-You can't get too attached."

"Niki, how can you stand it? Having Percy telling us half-truths and crap about nation and security?" he asks hoarsely.

Nikita's eyes flicker up to the doctor, who pointedly keeps his attention on the gash on Michael's back.

"Because it is about nation and security," she answers honestly. "It's about keeping our government free of corruption by any means necessary."

Michael winces as the doctor jabs an anesthetic needle into his back. "Stitches," the doctor tells him succinctly, giving an eye to Nikita.

She decides to quickly shift gears. "Michael, the O'Malley gang. They didn't see your arm, did they?"

"No. I'd be dead if they did."

"All right," she exhales. "Get some rest. I'll see you later."

Michael doesn't acknowledge her leaving, inclined to stare at the floor while the doctor zips a thread and needle through his skin. As she passes the doctor, she gestures him to follow.

"Don't let Percy know about those remarks he made. Michael's…he's not himself right now," she says, an earshot away from Michael.

"Of course." The doctor looks at her as if he doesn't believe a single word she says.

Nikita pinches the bridge of her nose, an oncoming migraine threatening her. "Good, good. Keep me updated."

And at that, she leaves.

* * *

Percy sends Michael on another mission. Nikita is there every step of the way in a cramped, black van, listening in. Everything runs smoothly without a hitch, and Michael assassinates his first target, some NSA lackey that accidentally hears something on the airwaves he wasn't supposed to hear.

Michael's never quite the same after that. He isn't able to look her in the eye. He stops smiling at her when she tries to crack a joke or congratulates him. He doesn't bring up what's bothering him to Nikita and stops asking her why she does what she does.

And she notices something peculiar whenever Percy talks to Michael, so insouciant like they're talking about weather and not dead politicians. Michael answers respectfully, a brisk nod of his head, but the steely glint in his eyes and the clenched jaw say other things.

"Michael, are you all right?" she asks afterwards, against her better judgment.

He appears haggard, having just completed an op and tugging at his tie like it's a noose. He bows his head down at her, and an odd expression flutters past his face. In and out in a second, Nikita doesn't get a chance to figure it out.

Michael doesn't respond. Finally tearing off his tie, he brushes past her, and the sound of his door closing hollowly echoes throughout the corridor. She stands there, perplexed.

Nikita discovers that she cannot sum up Michael's response as a single, isolated thing-that she cannot, in the end, be able to reassure herself that Michael's okay (that _they're_ okay). As time goes on, Michael ultimately stops talking to her all together.

* * *

Amidst his hard silence, the strangest thing happens to Nikita. She begins to doubt herself.

* * *

"There's a mole in our organization Nikita," Percy says. His suit is razor-sharp and black like coal against the pallor of his skin and light hair.

"Sir?" she asks, standing tall beside his desk and on call for any order.

"We can't have somebody compromising Michael and the La Muerta assignment. It's your task to find out who it is."

"Do we have any conclusive evidence?"

Percy shuffles papers on his desk, flipping through the pages. "Many of outside operations have been sabotaged, Nikita. I just got a report from one our posts in Angola, and I had Birkhoff check our records. He's found out that our information's no longer secure—there's a leak, and our clients are getting antsy."

"Who's been sabotaging us?"

"I don't know, but IT has traced it back to a terrorist splinter cell."

Nikita inhales harshly, darkening. "Gogol?"

"No. We haven't identified a name yet," Percy says off-handedly, too quickly.

"Sir, if I may be so forward to…" She pauses.

"Spit it out." He gestures to her with a wave of his hand.

She deeply inhales. "Are you hiding something from me?"

Percy's actions still. A slow movement, his eyes roll up at her with an unmistakable ire. "That's not your problem Nikita."

She's not one to directly question Percy's orders. Nikita doesn't know what compels her, but the words literally tumble out of her mouth. "But if this has to do with Michael, we have to pull him out of the field—"

"Nikita, you do understand that we _need_ Michael to be ready for Rodriguez. That's why I'm telling you to start an investigation and find the mole."

"Sir, if they find out, he's going to be killed—"

"You've become oddly rebellious, haven't you?" he interrupts, annoyed. Nikita stiffens.

"Sir?"

"And protective of Michael. It's shocking how attached you're becoming Nikita. You, of all the people here, know that sacrifices are made for the good of the country. Some of them are actually necessary."

Nikita inwardly bristles at Percy's implication, and only a small twitch of her eyes show for it. "Sir."

Percy calms down, adding a small friendly touch to his words that belie all the menace he has. "Besides, Michael is independent and capable. There are other recruits who also need training. They need more attention right now than he does, so I'd recommend focusing your efforts on them and discovering who's been leaking our information."

Nikita bites her tongue and replies, "Sir."

"And I don't want your _feelings_ to get in the way with the investigation. Anyone could be the mole. Keep that in mind."

"Yes sir," she utters with difficulty. "I will."

* * *

Nikita doesn't get a moment of respite with Percy breathing down her neck, lately inspecting her movements and decisions with a critical eye. He's unpleased that her leads for the mole come up non-existent.

On top of that, she gets stuck with Michael on an assignment in Switzerland-something akin to pulling teeth by the way he ignores her most of the time.

Hidden amongst the foliage in the dead of the night, Nikita quietly waits at her sniper. Beside her, Michael peers through a pair of binoculars at a large Victorian style mansion, opulent, grand and screaming money from every brick. The air is thick from tension and the proverbial elephant hanging around them.

Finally, their target leaves the building, and Nikita holds her breath and squeezes the trigger.

She misses.

"Fuck," Michael growls as a group of men in the far distance start yelling and pointing in their direction, holding large automatics in their hands. "How did you miss?"

"Shut up, get the gear, and let's get out of here."

They grab their stuff and head off into the forest behind them, evading the group of men screaming in Russian. They run and run, until they no longer hear anything else except night crickets and their own panting.

"Great job," Michael scathingly tells Nikita, heaving his pack over his shoulder. "Let's see if Percy doesn't skin our hides after this."

Michael passes her and makes their way back to their car as Nikita quietly seethes.

* * *

The plane ride back is excruciatingly silent, and Nikita suppresses the urge to slam her phone into Michael's hardened face. She fumes, mentally rebuking herself while Michael ignores her and opts to stare out the window instead.

* * *

"What's the matter with you?" Nikita harshly asks Michael, because her body is thrumming from the stress piling atop of her from Percy, the mole, the failed op, all the uncertainties swimming in her mind and from the subdued pain she feels when he looks past her in the equipment room like she's nobody and from the _ache_ that comes from a raw emptiness created by the distance between them.

God, how she hates him. So much.

"What are you talking about?" he mutters, shoving his gun into a bag.

"You've been acting strange since—"

"What?"

"You know."

"Know what?" Michael angrily snaps, slamming his keycard down, rattling the table. "Know what we're doing?"

"What are you _talking_ about Michael? That's-"

"-What is this place about? We're killing people with little evidence and no trial—"

"—it's not about—"

"-that Percy gets us to do his every fucking bidding, and if we fail, we're corpses, and you're…"

He clenches his jaw, struggling for words.

"What Michael?"

"You're going along with it like you're some little lackey! Like you're his bitch—"

Immediately, Michael quiets, realizing his words. Furious, Nikita crosses her arms, digging her nails deep into her flesh, indenting angry red half-moons.

"You _stupid_ little boy. How dare you—"

"How dare I?" he scoffs. "What about you? Thinking you're giving chances to these kids, giving them hope that they have another chance when really, they're fodder, replaceable—"

"What are you say—"

"—that you're doing a piss-poor job taking care of your recruits, soldier!"

"You ass—"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here Nikita?"

"The right thing!" she screams hoarsely, anger coursing through her veins, burning her on fire. The impudent man, daring to question her. "I am doing the right thing when our own fucking government can't be liable, when _they're_ the ones making the huge mess."

She forcefully grabs the lapels of Michael's jacket and snarls, "_That is what I am doing here."_

A beat and a stalemate. She can feel his chest heavily moving under her hands.

Then, Michael visibly deflates, standing close enough to hear her breathe. "Christ Niki," he says softly. "I don't get it. I don't get you."

His eyes flicker down to her lips. Red, like the first time he met her. Nikita, awkwardly realizing how close they are, unlatches her hands.

But as Michael stares, his irises barely showing, she watches him through her lashes, waiting, unsure.

Michael places his hand on her hip and gingerly places his mouth on her's. She's actually a little disappointed, because for all the sheer physical violence she's seen him incur, the kiss is somewhat of a let-down.

But then he wraps his arms around her, his hands pressing deep into the small of her back and with a zealous passion that transforms the warm glow in her stomach into a conflagration threatening to consume her alive. She rakes her hands through his hair, wrapping a leg around his waist and pressing herself against him until she's melting into him.

Michael lets out a guttural sound from the back of his throat, grinding into her, and pushes her back until her thigh hits the table.

The impact makes the responsible part of her brain catch up with the rest of her body, and Nikita pries herself away from Michael, pushing him off of her.

"God, you idiotic beast of a man," she grits out, reprimanding him and her sudden loss of judgment.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"There is no way in hell you get to do that."

"Niki—"

"Out." She angrily slashes the air with her forearm.

He doesn't budge, standing there, confused. It's a tragic sight for a man that dangerous to look so dumbly baffled, and Nikita wants nothing more than put him out of his misery.

Somehow, she was so blindingly attracted to him, losing any sense of control. That thought alone made the anger bubbling under the surface spill over in waves of hateful, spiteful tension.

"Did you hear me? Get _Out_."

He watches her, his eyes—pupils expanded and dark like the well that nearly drowned her and cost her everything-carefully analyzing the situation yet wounded by her rejection. His Adam's apple bobs when he lifts his chin in a challenge, and Nikita is tempted to take any sharp object in her vicinity and jab it into his throat.

But then he averts his eyes, the pain suddenly wrapped up in layers of neutrality. Michael straightens himself out with a jerky shake.

"I'll see you Nikita."

Michael noiselessly leaves the room. Nikita slumps back and scrubs her hand over her face, exhausted.

* * *

Michael is sanctioned for continuous outside work and becomes a full-fledged operative. Nikita doesn't see him around in Division, except for the occasional glimpse from Operations when he comes in to report specifically to Percy. Alex and Birkhoff make off-handed remarks about how he's doing, his skyrocketing success rate. Percy even comes in one time to specifically commend Nikita on her handiwork, a rarity nowadays amongst the fiasco created by the mole.

Amanda simply raises an eyebrow. It's because she knows. It's all remarkably laughable and pathetic.

Michael walks with a straighter back and a smooth movement to his pace. His utter presence in the training area halts all activity. The recruits stare at him, whispering how that man was _the _Michael, one of Division's best and what they all strove to be-to be as skilled, dangerous, and successful. Somehow, they've forgotten Michael's origin story and Nikita's vigilant hand in constructing Michael, that cool, attractive persona.

Whenever he comes in, wearing dark designer suits that dress him up attractively and tames his image, Nikita ignores the fact that she misses the time when he was nothing but unrefined power, when he made mistakes and fumbled around with firearms, unable to figure heads or tails of a gun. Back when all he had going for him was his ability to attack and snap a man's neck under half a minute and a death certificate.

That time when he reminded her of a well, of all things possible. When he gave her the barest glimpse of his life, and all he expected in return was for her to watch his back.

* * *

"Their territory runs all the way down through Brazil, which is where they do their major business," Nikita explains at the head of a long conference table. The monitor behind her beeps when it shows a picture of a thick red line running down a topographical map. "Due to the recent reforms in Brazilian policies and government crackdown however, Rodriguez will not be in the country. He'll be in Colombia, at his personal resort. That's where Michael is headed."

"And who is this Rodriguez man?" Alex asks, twirling her pen between her fingers.

"Drug cartel lord, arms trafficker, mafia boss, et cetera et cetera. He tends to rotate the title. Unfortunately, Rodriguez has a box. He's been threatening us with it," Nikita says, pressing her remote. The monitor brightens up with Rodriguez's profile, his picture showing him to be a middle-aged man with a pompadour, several chins, and a smug look. "Something along the lines of blackmail."

"Michael is going to go in and assassinate Rodriguez," Alex succinctly sums up. In the seat next to her, Thom mouths "duh". Alex nudges him and raises an eyebrow.

"Wait," Birkhoff interrupts amongst his group of techies sitting hunched together. "Michael's just gonna come out of nowhere and say 'Hey! I magically got out of prison, because somehow, I'm fate's golden child!' That's not gonna fly. What about the part where Michael was supposed to die by lethal injection?"

"Rodriguez loves cage fights, and Michael was his biggest breadwinner up in the States. And." Birkhoff shrinks under Amanda's icy gaze. "Michael is not going in as Division. For all they know, Michael suddenly disappeared in March. We're putting on the blame on the O'Malleys."

"This is why you're at the computers," Alex jokes. Unable to help herself, Nikita's mouth twitches up when Birkhoff throws Alex a dirty look and mutters obscenities under his breath.

"Won't they suspect him, even a little bit?" Birkhoff turns to Nikita and asks.

Nikita concisely says, "We'll see."

"That's going to start a mafia war," Alex says.

"Which makes it easier to get to Rodriguez. After Rodriguez is dead, there will be a power vacuum, and we're in good spots already to gather their resources," Nikita says.

"Overthrow the leaders, so to speak," Amanda adds in. The techies follow her legs with rapt attention when she crosses them. She smiles in turn, teeth threatening, and they quickly start writing notes again.

"That is a really elaborate scheme," Alex chimes in, a smirk firmly in place, watching the table dynamics.

"It's taken a lot of time," Percy says, appearing in the entryway. Everyone straightens up when he enters. Amanda politely bows her head. "But it'll give us solid connections into the black market trade and appease a couple of politicians. Did you know about the new major party leader in House, Mark Lovejoy? He's been a major benefactor, as well as Senator Maller. They're interested in curbing crime."

"Shaaaady," Alex sings. "He definitely paid us a hefty sum," she whispers to Nikita.

"None of us have been able to infiltrate Rodriguez's inner group due to his airtight security in his mansion. So, a change of plans. I've decided that this'll be a one-man op," Percy says.

"So I have no back-up?" Michael says, breaking his long silence throughout the briefing. He sits next to Amanda, slung back against his chair with his arms crossed.

"Yes," Percy says. Michael catches Nikita's gaze and averts his eyes back to Percy. "Birkhoff will be monitoring your location remotely via satellite, but there will be no other forms of communication. No ear pieces, no cell phone calls, none of that. Only in absolute emergencies. Other than that, we can't risk it."

Nikita lets out a short breathe. "Sir, is that a good idea?"

Percy eyes Nikita sharply. Michael notices, sitting up. "What do you mean?"

"This is a long-term op. We can't compromise any of Michael's safety if we expect to send him in for deep infiltration."

Everyone holds their collective breath when Percy slightly reddens. "It's been done before, and Michael is capable."

"It doesn't matter if he's capable," she argues with a rising passion. "With La Muerta and Rodriguez, we need to be there every step of the way. We still haven't plugged the leak yet."

"Michael will be going in alone." Percy punctuates every word with a hidden warning, his voice edging decibels. "Perhaps if you had been your job correctly, the mole would have been discovered by now. So there will be no arguments. Are we clear Nikita?"

She quickly casts her eyes at Michael, who watches with the barest clue of consternation, his mouth pressed firmly.

"Yessir."

"Good. Michael, come with me."

They leave behind a grimly quiet table.

Nikita quickly gathers herself and tugs at her blazer. "Michael will be on a flight tonight at twenty-hundred hours. Please be ready by then. Dismissed."

Slowly, they get up to leave, some glancing at her, milling amongst themselves. Amanda passes by with a stern look. Alex is the last to leave, squeezing Nikita's shoulder and giving a small, almost wilted smile.

When the room is empty, Nikita leans forward on the table, curving her head low, and sighs.

* * *

"You like him," Alex states brusquely.

"Who?" Nikita distractedly asks.

"Michael."

"There are times when you're cute Alex, but this isn't one of them," Nikita says from the paperwork strewn across her desk. She scrolls through several files on her computer, intentionally busying herself.

Alex lingers in the room, scrutinizing the office-standard artwork on Nikita's walls like a pretentious critic. "Birkhoff's connected, and it seems like everything's going smoothly. Michael's making a ruckus with his reappearance," she says off-handedly.

"First Amanda, now you," Nikita mutters under her breath.

"What?" Alex says from Nikita's side.

Nikita quickly backpedals. "Nothing. Is there a reason why you're here?" She smiles with a stark artificiality to her sweetness.

"Just wondering how you are." Alex remains on the last syllable a minute too long, hooking it with a very deliberate tap at Nikita's monitor. "This is a pretty big op, and I noticed you've been kind of jittery."

"I'm…fine."

Alex tilts her head. "No you're not. What's been going on between you and Michael?"

Nikita glares at Alex above her glasses rims before distinctly ignoring her and opting to type on the computer.

"C'mon. You guys were like the best buddies ever before he got initiated for field. And then that episode with Percy in the conference room a week ago? I have never heard you talk back to Percy that strongly before," Alex emphases with a grand, sweeping gesture of her arm.

Nikita takes off her glasses and rubs her forehead. "Alex, this isn't a good time."

When the phone rings, it's like a blare to Nikita's ears. She ignores it for a moment, trying to feign exhaustion to get Alex out of her office.

Then a loud chirrup jolts Alex. She fumbles for her pantsuit pocket, retrieving her phone. Glancing at the name on her vibrating phone, Alex worriedly crinkles her brows. "Nikita, you might want to pick it up. This is Alex," she says into the phone as she leaves the room.

Nikita picks up her receiver, still ringing. "Hello?"

"_Operations. Now._"

"Birkhoff, what's going on?"

"_We have a situation Nikita. We've lost contact with Michael."_

Nikita almost sprints out of the room and down the hall to Operations. When she veers in, the room has erupted into chaotic pandemonium, a cacophony of yelling people rushing around.

"We—we have a problem people," Birkhoff yells at his techs. The monitor mounted above their computers suddenly turns to static.

"What's happening?" Nikita asks, alarmed.

"The feed's been cut for the past fifteen minutes. I'm trying to re-establish contact, but I can't track his phone and the comm's been compromised and all the cam feeds have been cut." Birkhoff bangs his keyboard with a stunted scream of frustration.

"That's not good," Alex says behind Nikita.

"He's in cold," Birkhoff says. "This is not a glitch. Someone has to have manually shut us out."

Percy stands, silent, with his arms crossed and his thumb pressed against his bottom lip.

"The mole," Nikita chews out as guilt weighs heavily in her stomach. "They know." She quickly turns to Percy. "Sir, we need to go in. Ryan's based in Bogotá-"

"No back-up."

"Sir—"

"Birkhoff, continue trying to re-connect. If not, he's on his own Nikita."

"We can't just—"

"If we go in, Rodriguez will know about us. Besides, this'll give Michael a chance to succeed, or he'll cost us," he darkly mutters. "I'll be in my office if there are any updates."

"Dammit, we shouldn't have sent him in this early," Nikita says under her breath when Percy leaves Operations. It won't work, she thinks to herself when Birkhoff opens up a string of numbers to connect via satellite. "Birkhoff, can we get in contact with Ryan?"

"Yes, we could, but Percy's already gave him specific orders." Birkhoff swivels his seat to face Nikita. "He'll know."

"Call him anyway and let me know when we re-establish connection."

"Nikita, we're never going to be able to—"

"I don't care. Get us back with Michael. I'll be in my office making some calls with contacts in Colombia."

Alex intercepts Nikita on her way to her office. "Nikita, you have to go," she murmurs, an earshot away from Operations and potential eavesdroppers. "I overheard Percy talking to Jaden. They're going to flush Rodriguez out, and she's going in to clean up loose ends."

"Loose ends?"

"Michael knows too much."

"What on earth are you talking about Alex?"

"She's going to kill Michael."

"Did Percy say so?"

"Well, I mean not exactly, but Nikita, he's sending her in before his extraction. That should set off some alarms."

"I doubt they'll go after Michael. He's too valuable."

Alex stubbornly blocks Nikita's path. "Nikita, Percy never meant for Michael to survive. Sending him in with no back-up, dismissing emergency protocol, and now _Jaden_? In case you haven't noticed, Michael's on a suicide mission." Nikita instantly stills when the dots connect. "You're the only one with enough jurisdiction to override Percy's order. Nikita, you have to go," Alex urges her.

"Fine," Nikita lets out after a tense moment. "Distract Percy in the meantime. I'll call you when I'm in Colombia."

It's the guilt, Nikita justifies. It's nothing other than the guilt that's making her go.

* * *

_Not as sporadic as I expected. Uhm. I'm almost done with the rest of the story-so maybe we'll see the next chapters out over the weekend. Or more sporadic updates. _


	3. three

_No more sporadic-ness! Cheer with me! Virtual hugs for the quick reviews, and more luff for you all. Part three out of four._

_Oh, and before I forget, don't own, don't sue. Also un-beta'd. That applies for the last two chapters too._

_

* * *

_

_Three._

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* * *

_

Nikita meets up with Ryan at a Division safe house in Bogotá after a fretful plane ride. Immediately, they begin to comb through documents, tracing La Muerta movement, any hotspots, and when Ryan notices a pattern along a main road in Bogotá, they start combing the city.

There are no niceties between them, no matter how much Ryan tries to flirt with her. She can't deny that he looks good—Latin America has done wonders for him. But the overwhelming worry that she has overrides everything else. She has nothing but business for him.

Ryan frowns to himself with an inkling of why she was acting so strange. The air around her is thick with anxiety. He's never seen her so worked up over another operative before.

"So, Michael…" he stretches out the name. Silence answers him.

Nikita briefly looks up at him from her desk in the safe house. "What do we have so far?" she then asks while strapping a gun to her leg.

"For the last six hours, we've pinpointed it to one area, but it's still big," Ryan says over a map, having dropped all pretense and good humor. He'll admit it. He likes Nikita, but after hearing from Owen who and precisely _what_ Michael is, Ryan's not going to try anymore. "We're going to have to do some more recon."

"Don't have time," she says quickly. "Who can we ask?"

"There's a house tagged by La Muerta where they cook methamphetamines in the outskirts of town. I'm sure if we go and politely ask one of them, guns a blazin', they'll tell us."

Logically, it's an imprudent idea, and Ryan's only joking.

But Nikita does it anyway.

* * *

After threatening to blow the house up, burn them alive, and take the ones still surviving to the police, Nikita finds out from the gangsters that Rodriguez likes warehouses. Though, there's a particular one he immensely likes for interrogation.

Rodriguez's warehouse is old and damp. The pipes running along the walls have rusted away, and mold grows all over the plaster. A dank stench assaults Nikita's senses when she carefully treads in.

They scour the east wing to no avail. Once coming into the west wing, they enter a vast, lit room, once used to hold all the production machines with rusty metal drums and empty shelves reaching the ceiling. The smell of drying blood and freshly decomposing bodies are what cues Nikita in on the dead gangsters.

Nikita sidles past a body, a young man still latched to his automatic, until halting at a dead portly man in his own pool of blood. She toes the body, rolling it over. "I found Rodriguez," she tells Ryan.

"And I think I found Michael's seat," Ryan responds, propping up a metal chair. He scans the fallen scalpels, pliers, and car battery scattered next to it, piecing together the scuffle Michael must've gone through. Ryan picks up a cracked cell phone on top of a rusted tray, Division standard for field agents. "There's got to be like five people dead here. Pretty impressive," he whistles. "But no sign of Michael though."

"He has to have made it out."

Ryan crouches down and lets his fingers hover over a bloody footprint on the concrete ground. "I estimate, maybe up to ten men were here. There's no way Michael got out of this," Ryan says, looking at her with an apologetic expression.

Suddenly, Nikita hears a loud clang behind her, and she whips around, instinctively aiming her gun at a beefy, Latin American man with a large grim reaper tattooed on his left arm and a semi-automatic pointed precisely at her head.

"_O que você está fazendo?_" the man yells in Portuguese.

"Shit, I didn't see him," Ryan says, pointing his own gun at the gangster.

The gangster's voice rises as he thrusts his gun at her.

"Ryan, what is he saying?"

"That their cavalry is coming, and he knows who we are," Ryan says over the man's dialogue, while the gangster weaves in the words like _Division_ and _Michael_ into his sentences. "Nikita, what should I do?"

She runs a thousand different scenarios in her head in the span of a second, but her thoughts are immediately cut off when she hears a deafening gunshot, and in rapid succession, another. _Bang_.

"Holy—" Ryan exclaims.

She dumbly watches the gangster collapsing to the ground. A large red spot expands in the back of his skull and another one staining the back of his shirt.

"Nikita," says a low, familiar voice.

She jerks her head up.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Michael says, sounding unquestionably irritated.

It's not quite what she expected.

Beside her, Ryan lets out a huff of laughter as he lowered his gun.

"Michael," she says, relieved.

* * *

"_Nikita, I'm routing you to Percy. You might want to be careful._" Birkhoff says over her phone.

"Okay, thanks."

The line clicks and then rings. She hears the sound of someone picking up the receiver.

In the balmy heat of the day with bossa nova drifting out of a café inside the hotel's lobby, Nikita instantly says, "Sir, I found Michael."

Michael looks at her when he hears his name, worse for wear and pissed off with a familiar scowl gracing his features. Stripped down to a pair of bloodied slacks and a dirty wife beater, he impatiently taps his finger, out of place amongst the hotel's elegant clientele. People pass by, take a glance at the tattoos on his arms-the grim reaper the most conspicuous-and then add extra speed to their steps.

"What's taking so fucking long?" he growls over her shoulder.

She's tempted to absurdly smile, because, Christ, it's like he never changed. But it quickly passes.

Nikita hears shuffling coming from the other side and sighs, waiting for Percy to respond.

"_I see._" Nikita holds her breath in the ensuing pause. "_Well then. I'll see you both tomorrow for debriefing."_

* * *

In Michael's hotel room, a clean and spaciously rich room ornate with Colombian decorative wares, she absently notices the way he tucks his gun away with great care and devotion—it makes her wonder if he could ever treat anything else as reverently.

"What did Percy say?" he asks.

"That he'll see us tomorrow." Nikita ungraciously falls onto the couch, kicking off her heels. She's jet-lagged and has spent the last twelve hours overturning every rock, searching for Michael. She takes her time, examining him from under her lashes. At least he doesn't look too terrible and still has full use of his limbs. She thanks the small mercies in her life in light of her insubordination.

"Nikita, why are you here?" Michael asks without turning away from his task, languidly wiping down the gun with an oiled cloth before shutting the case.

For a moment, she hesitates. He watches her from the corner of his eye. "You were compromised."

"They know, but I was able to get out in time, so I'm fine." Annoyed, Michael stands at the table for a moment, unable to make face Nikita, festering in his irritation. "What are you doing here?"

"I was worried."

"Don't be," he says harshly.

Nikita frowns but notices the cut on his lip and the purple bruise forming on his cheek. "Did you get medical attention?"

"I said I'm fine."

"Don't be such a petulant child with me. I dropped everything to come here and get you out of this mess."

He turns to her, his expression stormy. "I said I'm—"

Michael bites back a groan when he grips his side and teeters. He shoots out his hand, and Nikita catches him before he has a chance to fall.

"Easy there. Where's the injury?" She slowly maneuvers him to the bed.

"It's just a bruise," he's able to choke out.

She mirthlessly laughs. "Right. That sounds like a bruise. Take off your shirt."

"What?" he asks, exasperated and straining to breath.

"Your wife beater. Off," she commands him.

He glares at her before reluctantly stripping off the offensive piece of clothing. Right under his ribs is large, mottled, purplish bruise, running parallel to his side. Michael sucks in his breath when she pokes at the tender flesh, checking for any other contusions or broken bones.

"You're right, it's just a bruise," she finally admits.

Michael makes an incensed face at her, undeniably miffed about the harassment. "I told you," he snaps. "I'm just tired."

Nikita places her hands on her hips. "You know, if it wasn't for me, they would've caught you by now."

He groans when he slowly lies down. "Yeah, go ahead and write that on your report," he says, without much bite due to the exhaustion. "Percy'll love that."

Nikita slowly seats herself on the bed, like she had so many times before in Michael's room. She pinches the bridge of her nose. She lets out a slight groan when she stretches out her legs and massages her calves. Silence settles in the room like a familiar routine.

"You didn't have to come Niki," he says, his voice quiet and barely above a droning murmur.

"You'd be dead if I didn't," she responds just as quietly.

Michael rolls over slowly, careful not to agitate his bruise. He gazes at Nikita, his eyes droopy and hiding the muddy green of his irises. "Who was that guy?"

"You mean Ryan?" Michael nods. "He's a field agent. Same class as Owen. He's based in Bogotá."

"You two were awfully familiar with each other." His words are mild. Except. She can makes out the barest lace of sarcasm.

Nikita snorts. "Right. Are you jealous?"

Michael's expression darkens, and she sees that intensity in him, despite the bags marking his eyes. But then he rolls over again, obfuscating his face.

She sighs. He's avoiding her, and she notices that she's been sighing more often. The silence is thick, like bittersweet honey poured into a jar. Michael shifts again, this time to face the ceiling, pillowing his head with his arm. His eyes are closed and his breathing, uneven.

"He's hiding something," Nikita says softly.

After a moment, Michael asks, "Who?"

"Percy. I could hear it in his voice."

"It seems to me that he's always hiding somethin'."

"But…it bothers me that there's something Percy's not telling me, and the fact he lies to my face." She sorts through her thoughts. "There's a feeling, deep in my gut that's telling me that this is all wrong, but I can't…"

Nikita struggles for the words. Michael finds it for her. "Like you're stuck. Caught between a rock and a hard place. He does that Niki. He promises you something, then corners you when you're defenseless. Even if you starting to doubt or you actually know what's wrong, you can't do anything about it."

"I suppose," she breathes out, shifting to face Michael lying on the bed. "He might suspend me from active duty after this."

"I'm sorry," he tepidly replies. "If you don't agree with Percy, what are you still doing at Division?"

She thinks for a moment about how to respond. "Because the government killed someone I loved, and Division can stop that from happening again to other people," she says so bluntly, so truthfully that Michael is taken aback.

Then he lets out a rough laugh, hard and worn. "I don't get it. I just—I don't understand you people." Nikita averts her eyes. "Working at Division, it's like my soul is decaying until it's nothing."

"What about La Muerta?"

"With La Muerta, it was different. It was all pretty straight-forward. You go in the pen. You fight. You win. Everyone's motivations were clear. Nobody ever lied about 'em. Not like in Division, where with everything, you have to read between all the lines and what everyone says." He pauses. "And I never had to kill anybody."

The image of Rodriguez's corpse on the warehouse's floor appears in Nikita's mind, his suit stained from multiple gunshots and brain matter splattered all over the crates.

Michael leans up and cautiously presses his forehead into his shoulder. She watches him under hooded lids. His dark hair tickles her neck. She feels the heat, the unhurried burn crawling through her skin. "Michael…"

"Let me be. I'm tired Niki," she feels his mouth saying. "When will this ever be over?"

She swallows thickly. It's a question that she's thought of so many times, but never had the courage to voice aloud. Never had the courage to find the answer to it. Her fingers inch close, touching his. His hand is warm and rough, calloused and has undoubtedly been broken time and time again. Slowly, slowly, she encloses her hand around his and latches on tightly.

"I—"Her voice cracks. Michael makes her this way, like a broken china doll, too vulnerable and too human. So she follows her instinct, wills all her energy to let go, and moves to leave. "I need to go."

"Nikita."

She turns.

His lips catch her's. A chaste press of a closed mouth, and she catches her breath in her throat, where it sticks. Softly, Michael cups her neck like she's a trembling creature, fragile beneath his fingers. Then she remembers who she is, never a doll and more like a soldier, and presses back, parting her lips. His mouth is slick heat, and he groans when her hands rake down his bare chest.

"Michael," she starts, breathless as his mouth starts tonguing the vein in her neck, making striations along it. "This isn't a good idea."

His voice vibrates against her skin and reverberates into the hollow of her chest when he chuckles. His hands begin unbuttoning her blouse. "I know."

He tugs at her, and she complies.

They tumble down, down, down.

* * *

"When do you need to be back?" Michael asks with his mouth against her bare shoulder. "I have the room 'til tomorrow."

Nikita gently swats him away with a repentant smile before shrugging on her blouse. "I have other obligations. They'll come after me if I don't report back."

"Then, let's run away."

Buttoning up, Nikita rolls her eyes. "Never pegged you as a romantic."

Michael grabs her arm abruptly, forcing her to stop. She turns to him with a witty question, but it dies when she sees the lack of humor in his face.

"Let's run away," he sincerely repeats, like it's actually an option to consider.

She averts her eyes and hides the tremble in her hands by swiftly buttoning up her shirt. "No Michael."

"We could leave Division. Leave this all behind. They won't be able to find us, and it would just be you and me." His old accent peeks through, the vowels dipping low, as words spill out of his mouth in a jumble. "We could start anew. Pack up now, run the hell away, and never look back."

Suddenly, Daniel's face flickers past Nikita's mind while Michael's hand is a plea heavy on her arm.

"No."

The bed groans when she gets up. She rummages around a pile of luggage in search of her shoes. Michael eyes her, his head propped against his hand and sheets wrapped around his legs. She moves around the room, aware of Michael's gaze on her backside boring past flesh and bone.

"Niki."

She decides to ignore him. After gathering all her things, her cell phone securely in hand, Nikita makes her way to the door.

"Nikita, please."

"I can't Michael," she says before slipping out. The hotel corridor is empty and as quiet as a graveyard, her heavy breaths and the elevator's ding the only sounds. Waiting in the elevator, she spies herself in the wall's golden reflection. Her hair's askew, and she tries to pry it into a coherent ponytail, vehemently raking against the strands with a painful vigor as her face crumples.

She won't cry. She's stronger than this, and she won't let Michael have the upper-hand. She's survived addictions, wars, and marriages that never had a chance to exist. One man could not trump any of that.

The receptionist at the front desk doesn't give Nikita another glance when she leaves with her make-up smeared.

The night air is cool against her skin, and her heartbeat flutters in her chest like a desperate bird.

* * *

"Jaden."

"Yes sir?"

"I want you to clean up the situation in Colombia ASAP. Make it look like a robbery or what's left of La Muerta. Or better yet, Gogol. As long as it doesn't trace back to us, and people don't ask questions."

"Of course sir."

* * *

Nikita takes a red eye flight back to Division headquarters. She sleeps the whole way back, and Michael pops up in her mind a total of three times. Each time, she rebukes herself, saying she'll deal with the aftereffects later.

After settling back into her office, Nikita notices a small nick at the edge of the cell's back cover. She uses her fingernail to pop the cover open and thumbs the inside, feeling a bump protruding from the warranty sticker attached to her phone's battery.

She unpeels the sticker, revealing a small, green electronic device attached to it.

Nikita sends it to Birkhoff and considers the brewing anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

"My cell's been bugged."

"_That's a problem. Should I tell Percy?_"

"No, just run the make and model and trace it back to somebody."

"_Sure thing boss."_

Later, she'll find out that it's a government-issued recording device with very specific modifications.

"How specific are we talking about?"

"_Uhm, satellite specific? It's pretty high-frequency and used mostly for information collection by intelligence agencies. You know, CIA, NSA, INSCOM, Navy, sometimes the FBI et cetera et cetera._"

Nikita holds the bug up to the light, looking at the illegible print embossed on its body. "Now why would our own government bug us?"

"_Beats me. Division definitely does not use it, and this baby has almost no use outside of our government_."

Something sits uneasily with Nikita.

* * *

Before Nikita can find out the bug's origin, Division is swarmed with men in full-gear, grim in black like reapers. Percy marches the death knell in handcuffs, and it spreads like wildfire that there's a man waving around a warrant signed by a Supreme Court judge, charging Percy for treason, among other things.

"_They're arresting all Division operatives. Burn your papers_," Amanda says. "_Burn all information, especially anything pertaining to the boxes_."

Nikita opens her mouth, and suddenly, the door to her office slams open.

Michael in a simple black suit saunters in like he owns the place. It reminds her of the vision she had in the firing range, so long ago. He stops in front of her desk, his hands in his pockets.

"Michael, what's going on?"

He clenches his jaw, unsettled, and unfurls his hands, revealing a piece of paper.

"Sergeant."

Nikita looks at him, puzzled. "I've never told you I was a—"

He drops a badge on her desk.

"By order of the United State Government, I'm placing you under arrest."

Nikita involuntarily lets go of her phone. It hits the ground with a dull thud.

"It's you."

She wants to rip him to shreds.

* * *

_Onoez! What'll happen? Well, I can tell you, definitely more flowery prose with little action and lots of character stuff. AND, it's available! Just click on the "next" button! How cool is that?_


	4. four

_Welcome to the final chapter! It is choke full of epic, mundane dialogue and exposition of doom, so do beware. Kudos to making it this far. And you know the drill. Don't own. Don't sue. Un-beta'd (Sadface!)._

* * *

_Four._

* * *

The last time she was in a detainment room, the ones with obscenely bright fluorescent lights, sterile, scrubbed clean, and metallic to the touch, was when she first encountered Percy. Irony has a vicious humor.

The door opens. Michael enters. There's an unfamiliar loping to his gait, and he walks with a quiet restraint. The seat scrapes against the floor as Michael sits down, grating her ears. He holds himself differently-with an understated confidence like an experienced professional and nothing of the amateur on his early missions.

Gone is the raw force he exuded, and something in Nikita's chest silently splinters.

"What are you? CIA?" she spits out.

Michael cocks his head and gives her a long, expressionless look. "NSA."

God, she should've known. "Nerds," she mutters. His mask breaks. He ruefully smiles.

"Unhappy?"

He teases her like there's no bad blood between them. But there is. Bucket-fulls, in fact. Nikita frowns.

"I should've known."

"You knew. You ignored it." Gone is the accent, replaced with the crisp enunciation of every syllable that he struggled to master. But it's cleaner, prettier, and more affluent. It tells her he's well-educated and probably from a well-off, upper-middle class family.

"So was Jimmy a lie?"

Michael's brows furrow, confused by the sudden tangent. So, he entertains her with a bout of honesty.

"Yes."

"La Muerta?"

"My cover. There was a La Muerta fighter that was incarcerated six months ago. I took his spot."

"So who are you then?"

He shrugs. "I'm Michael."

"Such a liar," she whispers, like there's vice clamped around her throat, strangling the air out of her.

His eyes soften, and unexpectedly, he reaches his hand up to her neck, grasping it gently. His touch, soft against her skin, traces her jaw. "Didn't lie about everything."

Nikita immediately jerks her head away like she's been burned right through her flesh and limits any response to the hurt expression on Michael's face. She has to admit: he was good. He had her fooled, and she no longer trusted his sentiments to be genuine.

"You used me to find the boxes," she says flatly.

Disappointed, Michael leans back into his chair. He sighs, "Yes."

"You couldn't have done this alone though." The shackles around her wrist clang when she scoots in closer. "Who else?"

Michael plays with something in his grasp, clenching and unclenching his fists, thumbing its outline, not quite ready to answer.

"Alex," he finally says.

Incredulity was something Nikita could mask easily, but this, this she couldn't fathom. "No. That's not true."

"Her name is actually Liliya. We borrowed her from the CIA."

"That is not true. I picked her up. She was a drug-addled little girl—"

"We've been on Division's tail for the past eight years. Liliya was planted as a precursor and for intelligence gathering about Division's internal infrastructure."

Nikita squeezes her eyes shut, her fists curling shut, so close to shattering apart. "God."

"Daniel." The word comes off hard, as if swallowing a bitter pill. "Daniel was originally Division."

"God, shut up."

He doesn't. "He had one of the boxes while infiltrating Military Intelligence and struck a deal with General Kline."

An image of a small, grizzly man in his Army green suit taking a shine to her when she first entered the 66th MI brigade comes up in her mind. Once upon a time, he told her she had a lot of potential.

Michael pauses and opens a file. He spreads out sealed documents and papers intentionally under her nose, some authenticated by Percy himself. On others, she recognizes Kline's sharp signature and Daniel's own elegant work. There, Michael proves his next words.

"That friendly fire you misconstrued was Percy's hounds. But we got the box, Percy got you, and everything started from there."

Everything started from there. Her defect from Army intelligence into Division, and Percy's well-groomed statements about serving God and country, cleaning up the corrupt government and the injustice it inflicted, catering to her bleeding heart over a fallen fiancé.

She spent a good chunk of her life serving Division, and Michael's words took a bat to her carefully constructed world, revealing the fragile balance Division sought to hide until it was smashed to bits and pieces.

"What don't you know?" she bites out.

"The whereabouts of the remaining black boxes. That's why you're here with me. You're Percy's right-hand. We know you have an idea."

"What makes you think I'll tell you anything?" she snarls, hateful.

Michael leans back into his chair and looks at the camera in the corner above Nikita's head. She watches him.

"You know what's true," Michael says without any aplomb or sickening sentimentality. He's genuine, like he actually believes his words. "And you know what's right."

The way he says it, so sincere and desperate, it breaks her. She feels them. She feels the tears welling up, and she tastes all of the pain and guilt and confusion amassing in her mouth.

"No I don't," she brokenly protests. "Everything—_Christ_."

She bows her head and squeezes her eyes shut, and the water smoothly slides down her cheeks.

"Please Nikita," he says all too softly, his voice low and laden with something she doesn't want to trust. "That night wasn't a lie."

She sharply inhales and looks up, at a loss.

And Michael is watching her, his hands twisting nervously—belying the impartial expression on his face. Then he reaches out and barely touches his finger to the pale stretch of her hand. She doesn't move away.

"Please."

After a lengthy moment, Nikita speaks.

"London, Amsterdam," she lists off indolently, losing all the fight in her. "Cairo, Rio de Janeiro, Melbourne, Shanghai, and Ontario."

As if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, Michael gets up with a hopeful smile and clasps her hand, warming her in the cold room as she feels the brush of something wrinkling against her hand.

"Thank you."

The sound of the shutting door creates a disgusting reeling in the pit of her stomach that wants to crawl out of her mouth. Instead, she swallows it down and unfolds the scrap of paper he left in her hands. In straight, clean handwriting:

_Wait five minutes for the shift change_.

Across the table, a small metal object gleans light.

He left the key.

She laughs, tears threatening to spill out.

* * *

"_At three pm yesterday, what is considered America's largest take-down of—not criminals—but actual government officials in what is possibly the greatest American scandal in history. This and more at the five o'clock news…_

"…_In a series of arrests, a number of politicians, including Senator John Maller, have been taken in by federal law enforcement, under suspicion for treason. They are alleged to be connected to a black-ops group responsible for numerous political assassinations and actually sanctioned by the government…"_

"…_As you can see, one man, shown here, is the assumed director of an intelligence organization, known as 'Division' that has been under investigation by government internal services for apparently the past decade…"_

Every TV screams about Division, streams grainy clips of public arrests, and Percy stating his innocence before the Supreme Court. He ends up being sentenced up to 200 years in prison. The lack of death penalty comes from high favors and blackmail by Percy's anonymous supporters that flittered away into oblivion after Division's public fall. Nikita thinks it has to be Amanda.

But a man of that status, secrets, and notoriety amongst the world's most dangerous circuits was bound to be killed. Nikita stops listening to the news outlets when a month later, Percy is found dead in his cell, shanked by a broken piece of laundry machinery. The world is still atwitter about Division, creating a massive backlash against the government. The president even gives a speech claiming to his innocence in the whole debacle, which Nikita can verify as true. The CIA scrambles to keep their reputation up, and she hears through the grapevine that the black market has to deal with a sudden vacuum that Division left behind.

Nikita keeps herself busy though. She cleans up her old accounts and wavers when she covers her tracks. She's so tempted to let herself be caught-get what she deserves, so to speak-but Nikita knows herself. She envies Michael for his tenacity. She often thinks about him. She wonders if Michael were in her shoes, would he let himself get caught?

So, she keeps running.

Nikita visits Daniel's grave and stops looking over her shoulder when an affidavit slips under the hotel door, and she realizes no one's looking anymore. With a post-it note with "I'm sorry" written in vertically long, sharp letters stuck to the first page, the document sums up several testimonies, swearing to Nikita's innocence and how she was an innocuous agent who got played around by the wrong people. Sealed by major intelligence committees, the three signatures at the bottom of the last page are Nikita's godsend.

That is if the Father were none other than old man Kline himself, the Son, someone named Michael S. Weber, the assistant director of NSA's Department of Counterintelligence, and the Holy Spirit, a CIA field agent called Liliya Alkaev. A small sticker points to an empty line.

It stays empty, though. Nikita's not entirely eager to accept his apology. At least, not yet, so Nikita leaves the affidavit to gather dust on the table.

* * *

It turns out that Amanda is much easier to find than Nikita originally had predicted. She skims over Amanda's Division profile. Just for the sheer hell of it, Nikita types in Amanda's name in to a search engine, and she gets a website for Amanda's cover. In another life, Amanda is a real estate agent.

After a few more phone calls, Nikita boards a flight to San Francisco, following the trail of Amanda's Division work history profile. She takes a cab through the urban, upper-class neighborhoods, and it stops in front of a Victorian-style house with nothing eerie or ominous about it. It looks like a lovely place to live.

A young girl, about five years old, swings the door open after Nikita rings the doorbell. Her flaming red hair is gathered up in piggy tails, and she has the same nose as Amanda. It takes a while for Nikita to string a coherent sentence.

"Hi there. Is your mother home?"

The little girl shyly nods and smiles before running back into the house, screaming at the top of her lungs, "Mommy!"

Nikita hears Amanda's voice before seeing her. When the door widens, and Amanda finally appears in the entrance, she says simply, "Took you long enough."

"Hello Amanda."

She mildly smiles. "Come in Nikita."

Amanda's house is narrow with long hallways opening into a living room with large windows filtering in sunlight. The room is homey, inhabited, with a mess of toys on the rug, magazines scattered across a coffee table, and photos crowding the mantle. It's all so domestic and so unlike Amanda.

"Did you know?" Nikita immediately asks.

"About what Nikita?"

"Division."

"That Percy was intent on creating his own little empire of his own?" Amanda settles herself on a loveseat, lounging comfortably. She motions Nikita to sit. "I've always known, and I've always supported it."

Nikita makes a face, skeptical and somewhat horrified. "How could you…?"

"You have to see it this way Nikita. Everything we did was a necessary evil to make sure that our country ran smoothly and that we could keep the less savory organizations in check."

"We took kids and trained them to assassinate people that now I'm beginning to doubt deserved to die."

"Oh Nikita," Amanda exclaims, exasperated. "Listen to yourself, you sound like old hock, passing judgment on everything. We took those kids, literally the trash of society, and gave them the chance to do something with their lives and serve their country."

"What we did was wrong. We gave them a gun and trained them to kill good people! We didn't care about giving them chances. We cared about gaining the upper hand!"

Amanda sighs. "Nikita, understand this. There is no such thing as right or wrong in this business. Getting the upper-hand and power is what keeps things running."

Nikita makes a disgusted noise and shoots up from the recliner. "I'm done listening to this."

She grabs her bag and steers out of the room, quickly striding down the corridor to the front door.

"You know I'm right Nikita," Amanda suddenly says from behind her. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have been in Division."

An ominous click. Nikita slowly turns on her heel with her hands in the air. Amanda points the barrel of a gun at Nikita's chest

"I believed," Nikita says, facing Amanda. "What I was doing was right."

"No you didn't. You knew all along but ignored it. You justified it by putting all your energy in being a mother to those children and pretending that it wasn't your fault when you put a gun in their hands." Nikita presses her lips together in a tense line, defiantly glaring at Amanda. "It wasn't until Michael started questioning you about everything. Don't you see? If Michael hadn't filled your mind—"

"Michael didn't do anything wrong," Nikita angrily says, surprising even herself. "He was the only sane one amongst us all."

Amanda sadly shakes her head. "And I'm the one with the gun."

"So what? You're going to keep that thing in my face? Shoot me."

"Oh Nikita," Amanda tsks. "You've forgotten how much I actually don't care about you."

Suddenly, a small, high-pitched voice anxiously asks, "Mommy?"

From the living room doorway, Amanda's daughter widens her eyes as it darts back and forth from the gun in Amanda's hand and the edgily quiescent Nikita.

"Baby, go back into the room," Amanda says, her calm undermined by a thrumming line of nervousness.

"Mommy what's going on?" The little girl clutches on to a worn bunny toy encased in her arms. She wetly sniffles, huge tears gathering at the swell of her eyes. "Mommy?" she cries.

It's then that Nikita notices something peculiar about the girl. Her eyes remind Nikita of Percy.

"Shoot me Amanda," Nikita quietly eggs on. Amanda jerks her head, staring at Nikita. Her daughter begins bawling.

"_Mommy_…!"

For a moment, Amanda struggles between Nikita and her daughter, quickly turning her head back and forth between them. Finally, she springs to her daughter, dropping her gun at a foyer table and scooping her daughter in to her arms.

Nikita lets out a breath of relief as her arms fall. Amanda hushes her daughter, jostling her up and down. "We're not done yet," she says to Nikita over her daughter's sloping shoulder.

Nikita curtly nods and then exits the building.

The next time Nikita tries to contact Amanda, another family has moved in to the house, and all they can tell her about the previous owner is that "she left".

* * *

Nikita discovers that Michael comes from a working-class neighborhood in Boston. His father is a Gulf War veteran and a metal-worker, and his mother, a seamstress in a factory until her arthritis got in the way. Michael sends them checks weekly to help with the medical insurance.

Jimmy, she finds out, is actually Luke Weber. He had died from a drug overdose when Michael, she surmises, is fresh out of college. Unlike Michael, who graduates magna cum laude from MIT, his younger brother takes another route. The neighborhood remembers him as "Loony Luke", the local drug dealer, and the police remember him as a nuisance that kept on giving until he choked on it himself and died.

His parents still live in his childhood home, a small, rickety house squeezed in a block and surrounded by a short metal fence. Weeds pop out of the yard, and the paint on the porch is peeling off. The house is aged and hard-weathered, much like the woman who greets her at the front door.

Michael's mother, "Call me Laura deah. Don't need to make me feel oldah", is a small woman with a certain hardiness to her. She has the same eyes-green like a swamp in the summer-as Michael.

"How do you know Michael, deah?" Laura asks her, setting down a quivering tray of tea on a coffee table, her hands old and knobby.

Nikita turns away from the pictures of Michael's graduation. "Work."

"Oh, so you're ah…" Surreptitiously, she whispers, "NSA?"

Against her own will, Nikita's mouth curves up, and Laura bashfully laughs. She swells up with pride. "That's m' boy. Come, sit down for some tea."

As Nikita walks to the couch, she notices a photo frame on top of a marred upright piano. The image itself is faded, the colors having lost its saturation. Michael, lanky like many boys hitting puberty, grins from ear to ear. His left arm is slung around a smaller, chubby boy whose face is smattered with freckles and an identical grin, edged higher at one end. Perched on his arm is a thin fishing rod.

There is something so happy and simultaneously alienating about the picture, it unsettles Nikita. She thinks about how her mother, her psychologically disturbed biological mother, had a baby when Nikita entered the foster care system. It was a boy. Nikita has never met him. She doesn't even know his name.

She stiffly sits down and clutches her teacup. It warms her cold hands, and she thinks to herself, did Michael ever like coffee or did he like tea more? She shakes the thought of her head and politely smiles at Laura, who is sitting across from her.

"How long have you known Michael, Nikita, was it?"

Nikita sips her tea. It smells fragrant and tastes earthy and sweet. "About a year, year and a half. Two, actually."

Laura smiles slightly and drinks her tea. She offers Nikita cookies, which Nikita courteously declines.

"What can I help you with deah?" Laura finally asks.

"Huh?" Nikita asks, confused.

"Well, there must've been a reason you're here. At first I thought, good lord, is he dead?"

Nikita quickly shakes her head. "No, no, I'm not here because of that. I'm here…"

The words are stuck in Nikita's throat. Laura places her hand on Nikita's after a moment.

"Are you all right?"

Nikita looks down at Laura's hand. This is what a mother's touch must be like, gentle and soft and patient. Steady and reliable like an ancient oak tree during a storm. She turns her eyes to Laura's face. When Laura tenderly smiles, her mouth crookedly lifts up, shadowing Michael's own lop-sided grin that Nikita's only witnessed in terse flashes. Something shifts within Nikita, heavy and uncomfortable.

Nikita doesn't know what made her come here. Maybe she wanted to make sure that Michael was real, not some idea that the government imagined up like magic that had manipulated her in any direction, as if she were chaff in an unfettered breeze.

She wants to separate the lies from the truth.

"Is Michael—if you don't find this strange, but how did Michael react to Luke's death?"

"Oh my," Laura says, shocked. "Michael nevah talks about Luke with anyone. Well, I mean, he was…" Laura rubs her hands against her thighs, thinking. "He was devastated. The two of them were inseparable until Michael went t' college. Without Michael around, Luke started making some bad friends, and…"

Laura's lip trembles, and she clears her throat.

"I'm—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked," Nikita stammers, feeling so oddly out of place.

Laura shakes her head quickly. "No. It's fine. It's simply…Michael, he just closed himself up after Luke's death. Clammed up, never wanted t' talk t' his fathah or me or any of his friends. That boy's always had a strong sense of morality, but I think he blamed himself. And then aftah Sarah and Haley…"

"I'm sorry, who?" Nikita asks, confused.

"Oh," Laura says. "You don't know. I shouldn't tell you then." She apologetically pats Nikita's knee before lifting herself up to clean up the tea. "Michael'll probably tell you if he told you about Luke."

Nikita drifts around the room while Laura is in the kitchen. She skims the clutter of frames set up on the mantle. There are pictures of Luke, of the family from years ago, but it's the pictures of Michael from which Nikita is able to piece a life together, wholly separate from her own.

A picture of Michael at his MIT graduation. A picture of Michael with his father, a man that Michael undeniably took after in stature. A more recent picture of Michael, dressed in a tux. She recognizes the jolly, ruddy-cheeked NSA director laughing beside Michael. Michael's arm is loosely wrapped around a woman with statuesque features, wearing an expensive maroon dress, her blond hair loose by her shoulders. Nikita doesn't recognize the woman, and within her, something fearfully green rears its ugly head.

"I need to go," she says aloud.

"I'll let Michael know you came around t' the house," Nikita suddenly hears over her shoulder. She whips her head around. Laura smiles kindly.

"No, no need. I will—I'll let myself out," Nikita breathlessly lets out in a hurry.

Laura hobbles after Nikita when she swiftly grabs the front door and literally sprints outside. She quickly hops down the porch steps, wanting nothing more than to get away from this place, from the aching, unfathomable feeling she gets from it.

"Nikita," Laura calls out.

Nikita turns around, feeling somewhat ashamed that she acted so rudely to a woman of Laura's age. She was taught better than this. "Yeah?"

"Please do come back again deah. I'd like t' get t' know you."

Unable to help herself, Nikita wrenches a smile out and replies, "Of course."

* * *

"It's crazy Daniel. This world is crazy." Nikita has never spoken to a gravestone. It feels a little awkward at first, but there's no one else she's been able to honestly talk to. When Daniel was alive, he had that way about him that just made her want to open up and be vulnerable after years of building up personal barriers.

It was so refreshing and freeing, and she actually thought he would make an honest woman out of her. Funny how that turned out.

"Didn't expect me to be here did you?" she asks affectionately. The words come easier, spilling out with less trouble. "I have some news. Percy's dead. Michael e-mailed me your written confession, and you called Percy a psychopath."

Nikita lays down a bouquet of daisies at the base of the gravestone, worn from weather. She toes aside the autumn leaves and detritus piled up over the season and kneels down.

"You were right. He was, but I turned a blind eye," she contritely remarks.

"I think Michael was right. I needed the control after you died. I didn't want to feel like that again, that time after you died." She twists her face and touches his headstone. "And look what I got myself in to. I ended up creating a group of killers with a trail of victims who never deserved to die. I sent them out, knowing that they might never come back." She quickly wipes away a stray tear she never meant to let out.

"Some of them," she continues. "They never did come back. I killed good men Daniel for money. I killed _kids_." Her voice cracks. "And I find this all out from this guy I fall in love with, who's a double agent and a liar and _I should have known this_." The last word is lost in her hitched breath.

She presses the palms of her hands to her eyes. "Christ, I never meant for this to happen. What am I supposed to do now?"

A breeze sweeps her hair and nips at her face. For a moment there, she can almost hear Daniel's voice, optimistic, because he always thought the next day could be better. He was such an obnoxious ray of sunshine, even out on recon, and he always made her laugh.

But then it fades. Nikita can't hear him anymore.

She tenses when she notices someone watching her from behind a column of mausoleums. At first, she thinks it's the trick of the light or the sun staring directly into her eyes. From afar, a tall figure with broad shoulders pops the collar of his trench coat when the wind hits him.

Her breath seizes as she sharply inhales. Their eyes meet, and his expression is indiscernible. He digs his hands into his coat pockets and turns to leave.

A tree branch above her head sways from the wind, creaking from the momentum when Michael's back hides in the distance.

Something within Nikita clicks into place, giving her an abnormal sense of clarity and movement. She's not sure what it is, and maybe in retrospect, she'll be able to name it. Not now though.

She reaches into her pocket and places her engagement ring on the top of Daniel's headstone. It traps the light and glimmers even under the shadows. She used to amaze at the prisms of white when the diamond was on her hand.

But that was a long time ago.

"Daniel, I'm sorry."

Under a skeletal tree craning its branches down to her, Nikita keels over and quietly sobs, releasing all the pain, betrayal, and death as a catharsis-deep like a well-washes over her.

* * *

Nikita finds a pen and signs her name and rank-_SSG Nikita K Ngo-_ and then snaps the pen cap close.

She almost feels like a burden has been lifted off of her. She almost feels free.

Almost.

* * *

"_Nikita._"

"Alex," she breathes out. She corrects herself. "Liliya."

"_I'm—I…it sounds like you're okay,_" Alex says warily.

"…I guess I am."

* * *

The days go by at a gauzy, almost dreamy, pace. She hasn't experienced life like this, since, well, never. Her life's been constantly one thing after another, but now, Nikita doesn't have a whole lot to do. She lays low, but she's not too entirely worried, keeping an ear planted on the intelligence and underground radars. She starts hiding out in a dilapidated mansion that crumbled as soon as the economy did and sleeps thirteen hours every day.

While lying on a cot that harkens back to her more utilitarian days in the army, Nikita stares at the ceiling, and after a while, she's able to close her eyes and feel a little more at peace with herself.

Once she's fed up with that though, Nikita hacks into the NSA database, ekes out Michael's phone number, and rings him up.

* * *

The sun warms up the autumn wind, but it doesn't stop Nikita from digging her hands into her coat pockets. She's in South Boston, and for some reason, the spot she's supposed to meet him at-a playground with a metal half-dome structure as old as the neighborhood itself and a history that moves with or without Nikita being there-feels a lot like she's encroaching on personal territory.

She first spies him across the street. He sits on a bench facing the swings, epitomizing the model of an intelligence agent. A simple, dark navy suit, shaven face, neatly trimmed hair. He looks terribly normal and genteel, discreet and unassuming. Nothing of a Middle Eastern dusty desert and its harsh, beautiful landscape. Nothing of a worn village well and its hidden depths and swelling current. He just.

He just _is_.

A torrent of emotions washes over Nikita—indignation, caution, fear, and strong yearning synced to her rapidly beating heart. She wishes she could loathe him more.

Michael sits up when she approaches. She stops in front of him, the affadavit tucked under her arm, and for a moment, they stare at each other, an awkward silence as they try to figure out what to say.

"I'm surprised," is the first thing Nikita says to Michael after months apart. "I never thought you were the stalker type."

Michael cracks a smile. One side of his mouth lifts higher. Crooked. It's then that Nikita realizes: perhaps she does know this man. She hands him an envelope containing the affidavit.

"Nikita. You look different," he notes when he takes the envelope, eying her new haircut and the fringe brushing her eyebrows, the heavy canvas jacket and jeans combo, a far cry from her standard skirt-suit while working for Division.

"Hmm," she says as she sits down next to him, feigning an air of indifference.

He shifts the envelope back and forth in his hands. They sit in silence, not quite as awkward but not quite relaxed. Nikita listens to the children laughing on the playground.

"INSCOM misses you," Michael finally says to her while watching a couple play with their dog. "They're willing to take you back."

"I met your mother," she abruptly says, ignoring his last statement.

Michael chuckles. "I know. She told me 'a very pretty lady' came by," he says, imitating his mother's broad accent. "You didn't have to go meet my parents. I told you I didn't lie about everything."

"I couldn't trust you..."

"But?" he continues for her.

"I heard you retired from the NSA," she says instead.

"That is true," he says, playing along with Nikita's sudden shifts in conversation.

Nikita sits there for a while with her arms crossed. Michael waits patiently for her.

"You know how you told me about Jimmy?" she finally says.

Michael nods.

"I went to your house expecting to find something completely different than what you deceived everyone with." Michael looks almost ashamed. "And I saw the picture of you and Luke on the piano-stand. You weren't actually lying," she says quietly.

"Nikita, I want you to know that Alex and I…we never meant to hurt you."

"I know. Alex already explained everything to me. She sounded sorry."

"She is. We both are."

"God, this is—" Nikita sighs. "You weren't expecting me to come to Colombia, were you?"

Michael shakes his head. "No. We meant to extract the box, then pull out, and I would be presumed dead. We already knew that Jaden was coming. It was a measure of whether or not I could get you to leave and not get stuck in the crossfire. You were hard to get rid of."

He sort of smiles at her, wistful. It nearly makes her respond in kind.

"You were the one asking me to stay though," she corrects him.

"I know," he says. "I was improvising. Alex was worried on her end that I wouldn't get out in time when Jaden came in."

She opens her mouth to say something, but her eye catches a gleaming light on his left hand.

Michael follows her line of vision and instantly covers his hand, moving it away from her sight.

"Are you married?" she asks, unsurprised.

"Widowed." Michael twists the ring, pausing. "My daughter and wife died in a car accident about six months before I went undercover. It's been three years, two weeks ago."

Sarah and Haley, she thinks. That's who they were.

He continues, "I heard about it when I was in Kosovo, following an alleged Division agent. I wanted to go in undercover as soon as possible, but the NSA stuck me in therapy first. I-" A pause. "I lied when I told them I was okay."

Nikita imagines the pain he must've gone through, the anger, the grief, the guilt, and the gaping void they must've left in his life, how the shrink must've talked to him like he actually understood what death meant and how desperately Michael needed to get away from everybody's sympathetic murmurs and sad looks. How he must've hit a tipping point, ready to tear things apart from his frustration at the world, at life, at everyone, everything, and anything.

She's familiar with the feeling. It's then, without consciously knowing it, that she starts forgiving him for the lies and deceit.

Michael moves in his seat, increasingly flustered. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this," he murmurs. "Anyway," he says loudly, "that's not the point. Percy's been on the CIA's most dangerous list for the past decade, and as you heard, he's been killed."

"I know," she says.

"But we haven't been able to locate Amanda." He purposefully looks at Nikita. She doesn't even flinch.

"I don't think she's a threat at the moment. She has other obligations on her hands."

The expression on Michael's face tells her that he's not quite convinced, but he'll take it.

"Okay, well. When we brought down Percy, we angered a lot of powerful people. Gogol's been looking around for the remaining boxes and sniffing under rocks for you."

Nikita closes her eyes and sighs.

Michael continues, "And the reason why I stepped down is because I've been assigned by the intelligence community to track Gogol. If you're not going back to INSCOM, I want you to join me."

Nikita opens her eyes to the sight of a little girl with dark hair and dark eyes running to her mother. It reminded her of a memory at some place in another time. "There's not a lot that Division knew about Gogol other than they're big, global, and scary. They rival Division in black market ties and resources," she says.

"It doesn't matter if we don't have the info yet. You're good at what you do. We could use that."

"I joined Division, because I thought, somehow, I could avenge Daniel. Percy told me that Kline signed the orders for the friendly fire. I was so angry. I never thought to double-check, but it's what kept me going. You know…I thought that I was right." She laughs mirthlessly. "I think I'm tired of dealing with black op organizations."

"So-"

"We could run away."

A beat.

"You know we can't do that. It was foolish of me to even bring it up." He looks away from her. "I'm sorry Niki."

Nikita's fingers find his hand and grip it, tightly, because she feels a bizarre unsteadiness, and that if she doesn't hold on to him, she'll float away with the wind to some unforeseen, unfathomable place. Michael threads their fingers together, and he keeps them pressed against his thigh.

"It won't end you know," she tells him, the future foreboding. "Even after Division, after we're dead, there'll be something else and after that, something else. Division wasn't the end of it. Gogol won't be the end of it."

Michael looks up to the sky, the clearest it's ever been all season in Boston. The sun blinds his eyes as he squints, searching for something he can't name. He wonders if Nikita is searching for the same thing. Beside him, Nikita shudders from the cold.

He lifts his arm and wraps it around Nikita's shoulders.

"I know," Michael murmurs against her head. She believes him.

Nikita had been afraid that he wasn't real, and if she tried, her hand would swipe air, and he'd disappear. Or maybe she was the one who wasn't real, having committed herself to a world made up of shadows and illusions that inversed everything she thought was true.

But she doesn't fall into him like he's an illusory ghost, because there he was. As solid and tangible as the ground beneath her.

Suddenly, everything's been turned upside down again, and perhaps, she's only re-orienting her perspective to reality. It has been a long time after all.

Michael's fingers tangle in her long hair, and she tightens her hold on his hand.

"What are you going to do then?" he asks.

She doesn't answer, because she doesn't know.

Instead, she leans into Michael and imagines that what it'd be like to work in INSCOM again-General Kline at his rear corner office, barking orders at people scurrying about in the bullpen and her catching up with her old unit. Finding out one's married, another has kids, and another retired and owns a vineyard instead.

Maybe she'll going out overseas in uniform again, have another tour of duty, serving her fellow man, serving God and country. Or perhaps, go overseas to slowly disassemble the Gogol machine, one piece at a time until there's nothing left but scraps and a victory in her fist, knowing that she did some good.

Maybe she'll even go home to a warm body. Maybe there'll be nights where Michael curls up against her after a particularly demanding op, and they'll share kisses and jokes and secrets and burdens. Where in their bed, he'll murmur things about how he likes coffee more than tea, and he'll laugh, deep and round, when she admits to him that she once thought of him as a village well and an Afghan desert.

Maybe, where one day in the future, her hands will be washed of blood and dead Division operatives barely eighteen, Daniel will be a tender, nostalgic memory, and eventually, she'll recognize the difference between right and wrong again.

Maybe, years down the road if she isn't dead already, she'll finally be able to completely forgive herself.

Then, lovingly, slowly, carefully (because she is not a doll, only bone and tissue and oh so terribly human and he has known this all along), Michael brushes her bangs back. During the bitter cold of the day, his lips against her forehead promises something, _something_ that feels like the sun's first rays arching out from beyond the stony, arid cliffs after a night of nothing but thrumming fright while hoping to God that she'll survive the war.

It promises something like redemption. Maybe, something like a new beginning.

So she softly whispers to him, "Maybe."

* * *

_fin._

* * *

_Couple of final (lengthy) notes:_

_Nikita's military rank is SSG, which means Staff Sergeant. SSGs are able to command squads (of about four people) and if the rank above is unavailable (which is I think Sergeant First Class), command a platoon. Why did I think of military for her? Taking in her canon background and poor childhood, I thought about how she'd become a leader in Division. Michael was originally Naval intelligence, so I thought, why not?_

_INSCOM stands for US Army Intelligence and Security Command. _

_As for Michael, as you find out, he's the assistant director of an NSA department, which I totally made up. Why is an assistant director going undercover? Good question. Why is Michael from Boston? Because Fringe's Olivia Dunham is from Boston, and I love their dialect. There should be a Fringe-Nikita crossover!_

_And then I made up a lot of stuff, because it just sounded cool. _

_The story ends on a sort of ambiguous note with Gogol and Nikita's last piece of dialogue, because really, when you're in a job that constantly puts your morals into question, fighting an abstract "evil", what's going to happen? Ultimately, what I'm more interested in is: what happens to a person in the thick of that?_

_But that's why we love spy stories._

* * *

_More notes (Can't shut up. Swear this is the last bit):_

_I'm not really interested in continuing the universe, so if anyone's interested, go wild! Just let me know ahead of time, so I can relish the new story._

_Finally, much love and hearts and virtual cookies for the reviews and support. Because, really, what's a story without anybody to read it? I luff you all, and thanks for sticking through the insane amount of dialogue and character exposition and random back stories and the weird AU-ness of the whole thing. I completely created a different creature than the show, and somehow, people enjoy it. Again, you have my infinite gratitude._


End file.
